


Agent Cupid and the Irate Pirate

by oloros



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Detective Work, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Goodneighbor's shaky politics, M/M, Mystery, Railroad's silly codenames, Redemption of a Raider, pre-Minuteman ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27755446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oloros/pseuds/oloros
Summary: Nick Valentine is prompted by a friend to aid the Railroad in recovering a synth kidnapped by local raiders. He's not happy about it, but he's getting paid. Too bad they insist on using silly codenames.The synth in question? From John Hancock’s Goodneighbor – and he’snotthrilled to have a resident slip right under his nose. With his authority already slacking, he takes it upon himself to find the missing man. He's more than surprised to find a metal man and a redhead searching for the very same thing.
Relationships: John Hancock & Nick Valentine, John Hancock/Sole Survivor (Fallout), Sole Survivor & Nick Valentine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Beginnings

_ Welcome to ROBCO Industries (TM) Termlink _ _  
_ _ Wait, how do I use this thing..? _

_ DECEMBER 1 [Entry 1] _

_ DECEMBER 8 [Entry 2] _

_ DECEMBER 15 [Entry 3] _

_ DECEMBER 16 [Entry 4] _

_ Accessing [Entry 3]… _

…

…

_ That bastard thinks he can kick me out? His town is a goddamn shitfest of chems and hookers, there ain’t no way he can reject me without good reason. He’s probably just jealous I got skin and he doesn’t. Freak. _

_ There’s a tunnel that leads into one of the houses in his town, starts from his ‘secret’ storeroom. I saw a couple of his lackeys lingering outside it, so gotta be careful… best to travel there late at night, maybe? They’re lazy bastards, would wanna go back early. I’ll get a bunch of boys to come with me, we’ll be super quick, in and out. Idiot won’t know what’s coming to him. _

_ We’re picking this guy called Robert Goods. He’s one of the newer residents, all shy like… I came across him recently, dunno what he was doing out in the commons. Don’t he know about Swan? Anyways, he was real scared when he saw me, said he was heading back to Goodneighbor and he wouldn’t give me trouble. Heh. _

_ We gotta leave Boston once we get him, though. Can’t risk getting caught just yet… Might move past the Weston settlement we’ve been seeing near the Red Rocket. They’re shit scared of us, probably won’t say a word. I dunno, haven’t talked to them, but settlers are usually pretty skittish. If they snitch, I’ll give them a good punishment. _

_ If all goes well, we’ll have this Robert guy heading east after tomorrow night. Either Hancock himself or his goons will come to get him… hoping it’s the man himself. I got plans. _

_ \- Terror, incredibly handsome and powerful raider. _

**\--*--**

  
  


Only a week before Christmas, Kellogg was fresh on his mind as he approached Diamond City. Finding Fort Hagen had proven to be the easiest part of the journey despite the feral ghouls and rogue yao guai. It was Kellogg himself that was the biggest monster in the woods, protected by a swarm of synths and armed with the finest weapons and armour a Wasteland mercenary could dream of having. The fight had been long, tough, and took more out of him than he would’ve liked to admit.

He needed a distraction.

There was no better opportunity than the moment Deacon had hailed him and offered him a job, catching him on his way out of Goodneighbor the previous day. While he was interested, the Railroad was inconspicuous to an extreme. There was no doubt in his mind that another errand for them would require more of his brain than he cared to use. He was filled in on the details and outfitted with equipment, but one issue stared him in his freckled face.

From the tips of his auburn hair to his hairy toes, he was built for fighting. He coupled that hardiness with charisma, having the ability to talk a dog off a meat wagon and hustle even the most stubborn of vendors. On the other hand, perception was not his strong suit. He was lacking a whole half, his left eye a milky white with a scar drug through it. He could look for clues, but it would take longer, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t miss something. Lucky for him, he could lighten his workload. He knew someone capable enough.

Chester sidled up to the counter. “Hey, Danny. Nick in today?”

The guard looked startled to see him, as if his mind had been elsewhere. He cleared his throat, “Yeah, he’s in his office. Why’d you have to ask me?”

Chester winked. “I always want an excuse to talk to you.”

Danny snorted and watched him on his way to the stairs.

He went through the gate, up, then down, where the glory of Diamond City was revealed. It was hard not to feel a flair of nostalgia; the first time Chester had arrived was with Codsworth, who griped about the lack of diamonds. Chester had laughed and they said no more, relishing in the beauty of a reformed civilisation. It was hard not to miss the moments where he could share a laugh and a drink, not having to worry about the shadows on his back.

Chester’s favourite area was the markets. It was where all the residents communed, sitting across eachother on stools and discussing their favourite items from the vendors, like a mall, only with radiation-ridden clouds floating on the skyline every so often.

“Hey,” a guard caught his attention as he walked past the centre.

“Yeah?” Chester looked him over. He recognised him: his name was Noel, one of the veteran guards. He remembered being told small snippets of his prowess, taking out a Super Mutant with one swing of his bat.

“I’ve been hearin’ rumours, see...” Noel stepped closer to him and lowered his voice. “You’ve been visitin’ Goodneighbor?”

“And?”

“You should watch your back there, friend. Aside from the ghouls, I’ve heard some  _ rough _ stuff ‘bout that neighbourhood. Tensions with raider gangs, real shady like… don’t want you gettin’ caught in the crossfire, you dig?”

Chester humoured him with a fond chuckle. “I can handle myself just fine, Noel. I appreciate it, though.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Chester bid him farewell with a quick salute and continued through the markets, passing the school and turning right into a narrow alley. A pink glow drew his eyes to the unmistakable symbol, an arrow piercing a heart, the mark of the Valentine Agency. It was quiet when he entered, the only sounds being faint scuffling of paper and the deep rumble of humming.

Nick Valentine was bent over his desk, a pen in hand, scribbling notes onto some paper. His secretary, Ellie Perkins, stood at the back of the room shifting through an array of files. Neither seemed to noticed Chester’s presence.

“Nick.”

His yellow eyes bore into Chester’s green one. He was wearing the same attire as always, a faded trenchcoat with a worn fedora. “I was wondering when I’d see you again. You holding up okay?”

Chester hadn’t come to talk about Kellogg. He disregarded it with a shrug of the shoulders. “I’m alive, aren’t I? I actually have a proposition for you. We’d get to be partners again.”

“I wasn’t aware the title had been revoked,” Nick said and gestured to the seat opposite to him. “What’ve you got for me?”

Chester gave the door behind him a firm kick and seated himself once satisfied. “I’ve joined the Railroad.”

Nick dropped his pen. “I… you sure know how to get the ball rolling. You’re a Railroad agent now?”

“I am.” Chester marvelled at the prospect before continuing, “And I’d like to involve you.”

“Slow down,” Ellie piped up from the back, having turned around to watch them. “How exactly did you get into the Railroad? Nobody’s even sure if they _ exist. _ ”

Chester raised a hand, “Sorry. I’ll explain.” He pulled himself closer to Nick’s desk, wincing at the loud screech of the chair against the floor. “You know that line everyone says? ‘Follow the Freedom Trail’? Well, I did, and I found ‘em. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you how to get in, but… I managed to gain their trust.” He paused. “Well, someone  _ else _ got them to trust me.”

Nick tapped his chin with the thin frame of a finger. “And how does this relate to me?”

“The job they’ve got me doing? I need you. Bad.”

“Not even going to ask me out to dinner first… I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Nick sighed. “I don’t usually leave Diamond City unless it’s for one of my cases.”

“That could make a fair alibi,” Ellie said, placing a lid over the box of files she had been attending to. She rolled her eyes when she received a frown from Nick. “What? Don’t tell me you’re not even a  _ little _ interested in meeting the Railroad?”

“You’re a prototype synth,” Chester added. He leaned forwards and flicked Nick’s hat, catching his eyes once more. “They’ll like you.”

“It’s not about them  _ liking _ me,” Nick said. “Besides, you haven’t even told me what this job is. _ ” _

“I can’t yet. You’re gonna have to trust me on that one.”

Nick looked unconvinced.

“Come on!” Chester placed his hands together in a mock pray. When that didn’t work, he jostled the pouch strapped to his hip. The sound of metal clinking together suggested his wealth. “I’ll pay you?”

Nick looked between him and Ellie, analysing their expressions before he conceded. “Fine. How much?”

  
  


**\--*--**

  
  


“Hancock...”

He turned on his side, away from the intruding voice. It let out a frustrated sigh and followed it with a swift kick to his side. Hancock startled awake, near falling off the couch. He blinked the blur from his eyes and looked around. Unfortunately, he was still the mayor of an entire town and not a fetching drifter in the Third Rail rubbing up against a beautiful blonde. He groaned and rubbed a palm along the wrinkled skin on his forehead.

“Hancock.” Fahrenheit loomed over him with hands on her hips. She looked like a raider boss from his angle, or perhaps one of the more seasoned gunners, with light caressing her features in a way that shadowed the upper half of her face. The tatters of her clothes were highlighted with the red flame of a candle and her eyes burned like its flames. “Someone’s been taken.”

Hancock rested his head on the arm of the couch and let out a suffering sigh. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Fahrenheit gave him a bop on the crumbled bridge of his nose. “No you’re not. This is serious! Raiders got in through Bobbi’s tunnel.”

“Bobbi’s tunnel?” If _that_ wasn’t a wake up call, he didn’t know what was. Stretching out his legs until his knees clicked back into place, he propped himself up onto his elbows and looked up at her. “We had her doors shut tight, how the hell did they get through?”

“Brute force,” Fahrenheit said. “There aren’t any doors to shut now.”

“Grenade?”

“No.”

Hancock hissed through his teeth. If it _ had  _ been a grenade, he would’ve felt compelled to patch the doors up again and let it blow over. “It’s that power armour wearin’ loon, isn’t it?”

Fahrenheit nodded with lips pressed tight together. “He was bound to come back someday.”

Terror: the most obnoxious raider boss Hancock had been given the displeasure of meeting. Being one of the few that possessed a decent set of power armour, he had come into Goodneighbor a few months back acting like he had the biggest balls in town, with his rabid followers with the ugly helmets causing havoc for the locals and defending it on account of ‘living free’. Hancock had told him his town had no place for those who chose to use their freedom only to bring harm. He would never forget the sourpuss looks he was given as they walked out the door. It was hilarious at the time.

But kidnapping one of his own? There was no punchline to that joke. Hancock lifted himself off the couch and gave his hand a quick scan to make sure no fingers had fallen off during his downtime. Content with his count, he plucked a half-empty inhaler off of the coffee table beside him and let the sweet, acidic fumes fill his lungs.

“Really?” Fahrenheit made to snatch it from him. His hand darted away and he held the inhaler close to his chest like a treasured heirloom.

“Hey! Nothing like a hit of Jet to prepare you for mayoral duties,” Hancock said. He placed it back on the table and steadied himself as he stood up, clapping his hands together. “Now, how long’s the guy been gone?”

The man was Robert Goods, one of Goodneighbor’s newest additions. He had been in residence for a month at most, frequently leaving for a day or two only to come back and resupply on Jet and Psycho. He was taken during the night, presumably when he lingered too close to the alley leading to Bobbi’s home. The Triggermen tended not to wander down there unless they heard a commotio, seeing as it had been locked up entirely. As Hancock stood at the entrance, blue doors shattered and strewn across the ground, one important question entered his mind.

“How didn’t they hear it?”

Fahrenheit kicked away a speck of rubble. “Probably too drunk.”

He wished he had brought the inhaler along with him. “Look, I get shootin’ it up, heighten your senses and all, but  _ drinking _ ?”

“You’re the one who pays them.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was  _ paying _ them to drink Goodneighbor’s entire liquor supply,” Hancock said.

“And you being off your rocker while giving them instructions is a good example?” Fahrenheit raised an eyebrow. He had heard just enough of her criticisms, and the day hadn’t even begun. Heck, no one had been  _ stabbed _ yet.

“As much as I would love to argue about the morality of chem use, we have some more  _ pressing matters _ at the moment.” Hancock pinched what was left of his nose and tapped his foot on the cracked floors. The Jet had woken him up, but the curse of a ghoul was to always need a double dose. Its effects were already draining. “Round up some of the guys, have ‘em search the tunnels. There has to be something worth looking at down there.”

“Do you have any plans to find him?” Fahrenheit wiggled a cigarette and a lighter out of her thigh-strap, clicking the lighter thrice before she started to puff smoke into the air. “Search team?”

Hancock had considered it, but the last time he had sent a search team two out of six members had returned. The Commonwealth was becoming more dangerous by the day, enough so that he had been cooped up in the Old State House for longer than he liked. To hear his Triggermen were becoming lazy, irresponsible, as well as a Raider gang infiltrating his town… he was getting sloppy.

“I’ll go,” he said, waving off her widened eyes. “This is a sign: I’m losing my edge. If I let this slip by, who’s gonna be next? Super mutants?”

Fahrenheit gave him a stern look. “If you die, Goodneighbor will be in ruins.”

“I won’t! I’ve been out there hundreds of times, know it like the back of my hand. ‘Sides, I got charm, good looks and most importantly: connections.” He met Fahrenheit’s sceptical eyes and put on his best ‘authority face’. “I need to prove that I’m not willing to take shit, Fahren. I’ve spent too long sitting back and letting other people do my work for me. If I keep acting like my life is so much higher than everyone else’s, I’m no better than Vic was.”

Not to mention the fact that Goodneighbor preyed on any weakness, even a single missing piece of a puzzle. If Hancock let his guard down, if his Triggermen let  _ their _ guard down, they would be easy pickings. It was never clearer than the night his own citizen had been snatched from right under his brows.

Fahrenheit crossed her arms but made no attempt to argue. “How much will you be paying me for this run?”

Hancock shook his head. “Nah, you won’t be coming with me for this one. I need someone to man the barracks while I’m gone, and most of the town is shit scared of you.”

She looked a mixture of perplexed and disappointed. “Don’t tell me you’re going to take the  _ Triggermen _ ? After what I just told you?”

“I’ll be taking some, sure. But I have someone else in mind… someone a bit more expensive.”

Leaving no room for further questioning, he pushed past Fahrenheit and sauntered back in the main area, where he turned on his heel to walk into Kill or Be Killed.

  
  


**\--*--**

  
  


The chains rattled against his bony ankles. His feet bare, his skin drying from the unforgiving wasteland soil. He had no way to tell how long they had been travelling, or how far. The only landmark he had been able to spot was the Boston common, a place they had left long ago. He was exhausted from the constant walking, watching the moon fall and feeling his body urge for him to sleep, knowing he would only receive a lash across the back for doing so.

The raiders didn’t seem tired. They were jacked up on Psycho, probably, or whatever other drugs they kept in their pockets. He had seen them inject so many chemicals into their arms, breathe in so many fumes, he was sure their bloodstreams had to be tainted.

At the head of the line was the leader, someone he had yet to see. He wore power armour at all times, scratched and rusted on the outside. He hadn’t stopped  _ once _ to clean it, not even to brush off the blood from a cluster of Mirelurks they had killed along the way. No, he let the blood dry, to stain a sickly brown as if it were a trophy to be worn. They were disgusting. Robert had thought Goodneighbor was questionable, but compared to the raiders it was a paradise.

His throat was beginning to dry, making swallowing difficult. If they didn’t supply him with water soon, he was sure he would die.

He was pulled away from his brooding by a shrill voice, “So, boss, where exactly are we headed?”

The shoulders of the armour shrieked as the helmet grinded against them to turn. “We’re stoppin’ at those settlers, take some of their crops, then we’re headin’ to Natick.”

“Natick?” Another raider said. A thick helmet covered his face. His voice was much deeper, raspy, possibly a ghoul. “That’s dangerous, Terror. Too close to the Glowing Sea. You know Deathclaws tend to wander.”

Terror’s voice boomed from his suit. “I don’t  _ care _ how dangerous it is, Jockey. Hancock’s a bastard but he ain’t completely blind. We stick to Boston and he’ll find us quick. Even  _ he’ll _ be hesitant to come this far out.”

“But don’t you  _ want _ him to come find you?”

“That’s why I said  _ hesitant.  _ He’ll still come, count on it. How about you idiots just trust me for once? I did a lotta research for this, more than both your brains combined.”

“We  _ trust _ you, Terror, it’s just-”

“Then I don’t want to hear another but, ‘less you wanna be fed to the first Deathclaw we see.”

“Yes, boss,” both raiders said in unison.

Robert tore his eyes away from them in favour of what was ahead. It was the settlement Terror had mentioned, a family of four farmers. He could see the fear in their eyes as they approached, a familiar kind of fear, as if ransacking their crops were a common occurrence. From the sounds of it, it was, and he couldn’t help but feel pity for them despite his own situation.

Terror didn’t even acknowledge them, making a beeline for their hard-earned tatos and plucking them from the branches. They did nothing to stop him, made not a single peep, only looked on wearily.

Robert sighed. It was going to be a long day, even longer than the last.


	2. Chilled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hancock's hit with a surprise encounter. The kind with a clean suit but a dirty aura.

Navigating Boston had become a breeze over the years. To newcomers it was a labyrinth of deadly street corners and ceilings of hanging meat, deterring the weak and attracting the desperate. Hancock, on the other hand, had a map imprinted in his mind. One that outlined every lurking danger and every safe haven. He was one of the few residents of Diamond City who had frequented the ruins, sneaking past the super mutants and beheading ferals on his way to Goodneighbor. Before his mayorship he was a junkie and an escort on the side. He was damn good at it, too.

Being tripped up by a misplaced raider base was only another clue into Hancock’s blunted knife. Getting back on track wasn’t difficult, but it was still jarring to have a feeling of being _lost_ in somewhere he had spent his life traversing.

Terror and his boys operated near the Pickman Gallery, having booted out the previous raider gang- or maybe Chester had gotten to them first. The man was unpredictable in his attacks. Some groups he would choose to ignore, others he would pave his way through with that dog of his. Cute, it was, with a red bandanna and makeshift sunglasses. It barked at him whenever it saw him. Chester had said it was something about the way he smelt, like a bleached skeleton out in the sun.

“Watch your step here,” Hancock called behind him as they entered the belly of the base, “Wouldn’t want some glass to bleed you out. Not a fun way to go.”

“That’s hardly a concern for me,” KL-E-0 said. Her steel feet clanked against the debris, and for an extra ounce of effect she stomped on a glass bottle. It cracked under her weight and shards splintered out around her, veering a Triggerman off course as he walked by. He yelped and leapt away like a startled cat.

Hiring her was a double-edged sword of a choice. KL-E-0 was scarier than a deathclaw and smarter than the wiliest of man. She bested all his men in strength and wit; he figured even _he_ would have a hard time going toe-to-toe with her. Do one thing she wouldn’t like, and he’d either get his ass whooped or be left a whole four men down to complete his mission with. As he watched her snap her hands at the man she had frightened, he smiled. If he kept her around, Terror would be at a disadvantage.

It had taken a lot of caps to convince her. More specifically, it had taken a reduction in her tax. As opposed to a third of her profits, he would collect only a quarter every fortnight. Hancock didn’t mind, really, he was wealthy enough and most was vanity money than anything. Goodneighbor didn’t need extensive fund management considering it functioned as a trading post. It was unfair to weasel folks away from caps they’d earned fair and square.

The Triggermen were an easier catch, his four best men.

The first was Pock, a ghoul much older than him. He was a stolid figure with hard eyes patched red and blue. Despite the hundred year difference, he looked much more preserved than Hancock did, even retaining chunks of greasy black hair that splayed out along his temples and the nape of his neck. As long as he got paid he worked hard and never caused a fuss.

Clyde, a more rambunctious killer, was much harder to deal with. He was a snooty blonde with a ratty soul patch. His suits were always needing replacements, and no one ever had a clue how he kept ripping them. One moment he would step out of town, then the next day he’d wiggle through covered in scratches, suit frayed and torn. Hancock would’ve wrung him down to the grunt ranks but he had an exceptional aim with his sniper rifle: a molerat could poke its nose out of the ground miles away and get a bullet up the nostril quicker than it could taste the irradiated air.

The last two were the twins, Rully and Lame, were a pair of boys Hancock had picked up half a decade back. They were just breaching adulthood at eighteen and nineteen, but were more capable than some of his older, more experienced workers. They said they wandered the streets until they found Goodneighbor, living off of the scraps of the feral mongrels that picked off anything smaller than them. There were rumours that went around of them being sly cannibals, but after keeping a close on eye on them Hancock was sure they wouldn’t know how to strip cloth from a mattress. They were brawlers through and through; their activities would be seen from a mile away.

By the frame of the entrance they lingered, all but Clyde, who had been unfortunate enough to catch KL-E-0’s attention and was desperately attempting to slink away from her prying eye. Hancock fingered at the trigger of his gun and cocked his head, urging the others to move forwards.

Terror was uncouth and his space showed it. Mouldy food decorated tables with chips in the legs and mattresses were soaked with substances Hancock wouldn’t _dream_ of taking a closer look at. The entire base was settled inside a ruined apartment complex that threatened to give way at any moment. He imagined it was preferable to the Gallery, considering the nature of Pickman’s works. After Chester’s scouting of the area, Hancock had been curious enough to check the place out himself. It lasted all but five minutes.

Nothing caught his eye on the first floor. Rully and Lame picked at the remains of the floorboards while Pock the drawers. Clyde lingered by his shoulder and KL-E-0 had fallen back to the entrance, seemingly on standby for anyone who wished to interrupt them. Hancock supposed she wouldn’t be too good at searching, having one eye and all, as big as it was.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs and grabbed Clyde by the back of the shirt as he walked by. He shoved him towards the stairs and nodded his head. “You test ‘em.”

“Me?” Clyde’s eyebrows knit together as he took in their condition. The edges bared dozens of splinters ready to nick anyone who moved their foot too close. When he pressed his toes against the first step, it cried out in anguish. The next floor up was _high_. He looked back to Hancock, who tried his best to keep a straight face. “You’ll catch me, right?”

“Sure,” Hancock said. “My eyes ain’t what they used to be, though.” Said eyes looked to the side, out a shattered window to his right.

There was a man, standing frozen, peering at them like they were wild mutts on display. Hancock was half tempted to bare his teeth, play for a feral and have some fun, but the deja vu that prompted his mind brought a startling realisation. The neatly trimmed facial hair to compliment an almost spotless suit, coupled with icy blue eyes… it was enough to taunt the wisps of a memory into a much clearer picture.

KL-E-0 had noticed him first. She was looking straight in his direction, yet none of her weapon protocols were activated.

“Pickman, I’m guessing?” Hancock called.

“That’s a lovely robot you have there,” Pickman said. He poked his head through the carcass of the window and smiled. It was a smile that sent chills up Hancock’s spine. He could feel his Triggermen avert their eyes, pretending not to notice him. “Mind if I pop in?”

Clyde had made it up the stairs and poked his head over the half-gutted floor. “What’s goin’ on?”

Hancock looked up at him, then back to Pickman. He bit his lip and raised his hand, beckoning with two fingers. “Come on then.”

KL-E-0 continued to watch him as he passed her, turning her head at an inhuman angle. It prickled Hancock’s nerves, but not as much as being in close proximity to the renowned ‘artist’. From a distance Pickman looked like any resident from Diamond City, one up in the stands, the type to turn their nose up at anyone who killed for a living. But up close, when Pickman stood merely a _finger_ away from his chest, it wasn’t unlike being dangerously close to a radscorpion’s stinger.

“You look just as described,” Pickman said. His eyes carved Hancock, shredded every slice of meat from his bones.

Hancock created distance quickly. His shoulders kept square and he straightened his back. “You need something? We’re a little busy.” The twins and Pock had moved and positioned themselves behind him. They were paid to _protect_ him, after all, not cower in a corner at the first sight of someone with slightly sharp teeth.

“It’s obviously no coincidence you’ve come here shortly after the raiders left.” Pickman smiled crooked. “I may be of some use to you if you’ll run an errand for me.”

Hancock raised his chin. “An errand, huh?”

Pickman nodded. “They’ve taken something of mine. I’d like to have it back.”

**\--*--**

When night fell, the Wasteland became a predator. More than any creature that could feed off its land, more than any raider with a pipe pistol. It was a living, breathing organism with a toxic, smog-like breath, waiting for a blind man to stumble into the depths of its jaws. But Robert found there was a charm to it when you’re all chained up- not being able to see, that is. With the lights of his eyes turned off his ears could thrive. He could _listen_.

Terror had taken one glance at the setting sun and declared their takeover of the settler’s quarters. They were helpless to do anything, as they had been when he stole their crops. Robert wasn’t allowed to sit close to them. He could hear them kicking their feet in the dirt nearby, muttering about their misfortune. Their farm consisted of two modest shacks and a greenhouse. The glass was stained and with holes, but the plants within thrived. Terror had let them camp outside of it, but they were never to go in; they couldn’t steal from _his_ food supply. Every half hour or so one of his lackeys would hobble over to make sure of that.

They spoke loudly from inside the main shack. Terror’s power armour was stationed just outside the entrance, an ominous gargoyle. Robert could see the faint flickering of a flame past it, each tide followed by a crisp crackle.

“Where’d you get that?”

The voice was gravelly. It had to be Jockey, Terror’s esteemed right-hand man. He still had yet to take off his mask, and even from the distance Robert was at, the muffle could be detected.

“Creepy guy’s place,” Terror said. “It was in a safe. Pretty easy lock.”

Jockey chuffed. “You’ve got some nimble fingers for those fat old hands.”

Terror laughed. There was a threat in the undertones. “Least they ain’t toothpicks like yours.”

“Fair,” Jockey said, voice lined with a cautious waver. “You’re not worried he’s gonna be mad? You’re already fuckin’ with Hancock. We don’t need another player in this game.”

“Hah! What’s he gonna do? He’s a stick of a man and cowers in his li’l burrow like a molerat.”

“Guess you’re right.” There was a pause and the fire snapped at the air with a renewed vigour. “It’s got a real serrated edge. You think it’ll come in handy?”

“Maybe,” Terror said. “I could skin ya with it.”

Jockey sighed. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d been threatened. “You wouldn’t...”

“C’mere. Let’s give it a test run.”

“Terror!”

Shuffles echoed through the farm. Terror laughed manically as Jockey’s strained vocals yelled at him to stop. Footsteps racked against the floorboards and there were a few thumps, likely furniture being thrown, and Robert could feel the settlers cringe at their ruined décor.

Speaking of the devils, rustling caught his attention and he could see the faint outline of one of the settlers to his right. They were closing in on the door of the greenhouse, belly down in the dirt. What were they thinking? As soon as they neared the door and dared to slide it open, it creaked into the air, an eerie siren to the stars.

They froze, as did the noise from the shack. Light feet tapped on the wood and crunched through the dirt outside. Blocking the light was a slim figure, certainly not large enough to man the power armour. The darkness enveloped them as they drew closer, until a green light brought Robert’s surroundings into a clear view. It was Jockey, he could see the mask, and he had… a Pip-Boy? He hadn’t seen that while they were walking.

“Oi,” Jockey jogged to the culprit. It was a young girl with blonde hair, her dirtied face soon pressed to the ground by a thin but sturdy foot. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”

She didn’t speak. Robert couldn’t be sure if it was how roughly she was jammed against the ground or whether she chose not to. It only annoyed Jockey, judging from the primal growl in his breathing, though he released her and allowed her to sit up.

“We laid out rules for a reason,” he said. His hand flew to his hip, wrapping pointed fingers around the grip of a silver handgun. He was faster than a whip. A single gunshot rang loud and clear in the air, spooking some black birds from their perches in the dead trees nearby. Robert had closed his eyes, opening them after the air cooled and preemptively grimacing at what he would witness.

Jockey had shot the ground next to her. There was a miniature crater beside her hand, just the size of a hollow-point bullet, and barely close enough to graze her skin. From the comfort and speed with which he handled the gun, it was easy to see that it was purposeful. Behind Jockey’s shoulder another figure fronted the light of the shack’s door, bulkier and more imposing. It had to be Terror. He was silent.

Jockey’s throat twitched under his mask as if he were gulping. Robert hadn’t had a proper look at it. It was an off-white hockey mask painted with a big smiling mouth. The texture of his skin confirmed what his voice told; he was a ghoul, shrivelled and vulnerable to the cold lick of the wind. His clothing was tight against his thinning frame and as he dropped his gun from the air his hand shuddered. Robert would’ve missed it had he not looked so intently.

The girl tucked her hand against her thigh and looked meekly up at him. Terror cleared his throat from afar. The volume was no mistake. He wanted Jockey to hear it.

Jockey dipped his head and sighed. It sounded congested, almost painful. “I won’t warn you again, got it?”

The girl nodded. Her face was shadowed by her hair as her head inclined. Past her, two people Robert assumed to be her parents crawled over. The man grabbed her with a strong hand and pulled her away. Jockey stood in place, following their movements with his mask until another grunt slithered through the air and into its openings. He looked towards Robert briefly, then turned away and clicked off the light of his Pip-Boy, returning to the shack and leaving their capture to ponder on what he’d just witnessed.


End file.
